


A Pocketful of Reviewers (July 2016 Fillathon Fics)

by Ningikuga



Category: Atop the Fourth Wall, That Guy with the Glasses/Channel Awesome, The Spoony Experiment
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Exhibitionism, Forced Nudity, Gore, Humiliation, Jealousy, M/M, Mad Science, Multi, Threesome, Unsafe Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 14:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7365388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ningikuga/pseuds/Ningikuga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets for the July 2016 TGWTG Kinkmeme fillathon that are too short and/or slapdash to stand on their own.  Each chapter is a separate ficlet.</p><p>This work is intended to depict the characters/personae, not real people, and absolutely no implications about the people who write and play those characters are intended or should be inferred.</p><p>Chapter 1 is a response to <a href="http://taekarado.livejournal.com/21601.html">this prompt</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conquest

It was tricky.

He and Vyce were biologically incompatible. Any environment he could survive in would be at least mildly toxic to the interdimensional conqueror, and vice versa. Physical contact without a protective barrier between them would injure them both, possibly severely, depending on the duration of the contact.

The robot’s fleshy exterior was - imperfect. It failed to cover one hand, and a few inconvenient other bits. All he had between his legs was a dataport and a few tatters of skin. Whether or not he had a libido was up in the air, although the alternate Linkara whose skin he wore had programmed him with a few quite useful subroutines. The issue of mutual toxicity with Vyce was less pressing for him than it was for Linksano, as there was less of a question of fluid residues, but extended contact with Vyce or his environment would be corrosive for him, and likewise, even his metal parts were mildly poisonous for Vyce.

“This is a stupid tradition,” Mechakara complained.

“I will not attempt to justify it rationally,” Lord Vyce brushed off his comment. “I have travelled alone through a dozen universes, and have had the cause to celebrate the imminent fall of a champion each time, but not the means. Now that I have independent sapient allies to celebrate with, I will not pass up the opportunity.”

Linksano knew in his heart that the robot was right, but it had been a very, very long time since anyone had offered, and he was far from immune to temptation. Mechakara, at least, was reasonably attractive, too. “I’m sure I can work something out,” he mumbled. “Will the ship’s fabricator do latex?”

Incorporating an extension into Vyce’s suit was simple enough; the complicated part was creating it with a layer on the inside that was biologically inert for Vyce and a second layer on the outside that would be inert for him, without having the two layers separate or break each other down, or be too thick for their intended purposes.

It was probably going to taste weird, but at this point he really didn’t care.

As it turned out, it wasn’t relevant; Vyce wanted him bent over the console. After some discussion, Mechakara volunteered to kneel in the space under the instrument panel and suck him off while Vyce fucked his brains out. Whether that was so he had to look at as little exposed flesh as possible or just because he was used to fellatio wasn’t clear, but the fact that he’d volunteered for it put Linksano’s mind a little more at ease.

He’d expected Vyce to be hung like a horse; instead, he filled out the extension nicely without straining it. Linksano arched his back and hoped to science that Vyce would use enough lube.

“For all that I see, I conquer,” Vyce purred in his ear, and the hair on Linksano’s neck stood up.

“Don’t tense up,” Mechakara murmured from under the desk. “It’ll just hurt more.” The robot’s mouth was cold, but his tongue was well-programmed.

If this was what being conquered felt like, then perhaps Linksano could be persuaded to surrender.


	2. His Maker's Image

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [this prompt](http://taekarado.livejournal.com/21601.html?thread=1524833) \- Pollo takes on a more comfortable, and perhaps entirely predictable, form.

Pollo turned from the pedestal to Linksano and back. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said, drawing out the last word.

“I understand why you might think that,” Linksano replied, repressing a giggle, “but I’m really not. Surely you see the potential advantages?”

“I’m not sure I do,” Pollo answered dryly. “For one thing, I enjoy having the hoverskirt.”

“And you can go back to it whenever you want,” Linksano riposted. “You already have multiple bodies; this would just be one more in your arsenal. But look; your sartorial options increase a thousandfold. You could go to the office supply store yourself instead of ordering online and then sending a cybermat to pick up the delivery. If Linkara needs a pick-up shot filmed, you can stand in for him while he mans the camera instead of the other way, and you don’t have to deal with him doing it fifteen times until he gets it framed the way he wants. Hell, remember all those times you objected to him using himself as bait?”

“I’m not sure I want to be the bait, either,” Pollo stated. “Where did you get the skin from?”

“It’s entirely synthetic,” Linksano assured him.

Pollo’s eye blinked. “Synthetic as in non-organic, or synthetic as in vat-grown but still human skin?” he asked.

“The latter,” Linksano admitted. “I took genetic samples from each of us in case we ever need synthetic skin for burns or other injuries. Which is another advantage of the new body - with a few days’ notice, I can re-skin it for any of us; Finevoice, ‘90s Kid, myself, or the clown. I still need to get a DNA sample from the ninja.”

Pollo slowly circled the android body on the pedestal. When he spoke next, he sounded less sure of himself. “Does Linkara know about this?” he asked.

“No, he doesn’t,” Linksano confessed. “I was hoping to surprise him.”

“The last time you surprised him with an experiment of this scope and scale, we ended up with a living blue foam lizard,” Pollo reminded him.

“And she turned out brilliantly!” Linksano snapped. He sighed and tapped at the control panel beside the pedestal. “Look, do you want working arms or not?”

After a pause, Pollo nodded. “You make a persuasive argument,” he sighed. “Power it up and let’s try it on for size.”

Linksano cackled and threw a gigantic knife switch on the control panel. Blue lightning crackled around the figure on the pedestal. Pollo’s hoverskirt settled to the floor, and the red light in his eye dimmed. After a few seconds, the eyelids on the android fluttered open; the eyes behind them gleamed crimson.

“That was a little overdramatic,” he said from his new body. “Oh, you gave this my current vocal profile instead of Linkara’s! That was thoughtful of you.”

“I don’t want to scare Linkara too badly when we show him,” Linksano admitted. “If that body sounded like him instead of you, he might mistake it for you-know-who. Although I’d hope he’d notice that this one has both hands, too.”

Pollo stretched both arms out and flexed his fingers. “Very nice ones, too,” he observed. “Dextrous. Strong, but nimble. Thank you, Doctor.”

“My pleasure,” Linksano replied, bouncing lightly in place and rubbing his hands together. “Now, until we figure out what your dress style is, you’ll need to borrow some of my clothes. Grab your scarf and come along!”


	3. Suspension and Disbelief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sage kidnaps Critic for a plaything. (Again.) This time, though, he's gotten out the good ropes for a special ordeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [this prompt](http://taekarado.livejournal.com/21601.html?thread=2110049). There is some seriously unsafe BDSM ahead; do not try this at home!

That the pungent ammonia scent of smelling salts was now a common part of foreplay was just one more reminder of how badly Critic needed a different job. He shook his head and attempted to blink the remains of whatever variation on chloroform he’d been dosed with out of his eyes.

Nope. Still couldn’t see shit. He was wearing a blindfold, and from the breeze, not much else. No gag, though, which was promising.

“Ah, good evening, Critic,” Sage said from somewhere about a yard above him. “Glad to see you survived your trip.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve kidnapped me for nefarious purposes, blah blah blah, prepare to be terrified, we both know the drill,” Critic snapped. “Can we just get on with it? I’ve got a ton of filming to do this week.”

Sage chuckled darkly and placed a hand between Critic’s shoulders, pushing him down slightly. Something tightened around Critic’s arms.

“First, let me describe what you look like right now,” Sage whispered, a few inches from Critic’s ear. “I left you your hat and tie for dignity’s sake. I also used my best black silk ropes on you today; I hope you appreciate that little touch of luxury. Each ankle is bound separately to a hitch sunk into the concrete floor under this admittedly rather regrettable shag carpet. You have a few inches of freedom of motion there, but you won’t be able to bring your legs together.” He ran a hand - covered by a nitrile glove, from the feel of it - between Critic’s legs, toying with his balls.

Critic tested that. Sage had been over-generous in his description; moving either foot more than two inches outward resulted in bumping into something metal nearly the size of a shoe. Only the thickness of the rope wrappings themselves kept him from banging his ankle-bone. “Go on, you sick fuck,” Critic snarled back. He was already getting hard; fuck, he hated how thoroughly Sage had his number.

“With pleasure,” Sage murmured. “You’re wearing a blindfold of delightful pink silk with a black lace edging, and let me just say, it seriously clashes with your tie like the trashy slut you are.” He tugged on the strap of the blindfold, idly pulling at Critic’s hair as he did so. “I’ve tied your wrists together behind your back with your hands facing up. Are you familiar with ‘Texas handcuffs’? You have a bit more mobility there than I’d normally give you, but you shouldn’t be able to bring your palms together. And that’s because I’ve also lashed your elbows together, or gotten as close as I could without dislocating your shoulders.” Sage plucked at a double-thickness of rope across the middle of Critic’s back, thwacking him with the taut strand. “You’re marvelously flexible, I must say. I imagine that’s beginning to ache a little, hmm?”

“No,” Critic spat. It wasn’t a lie, not yet. It was uncomfortable, but discomfort had not yet turned to actual pain.

“Pity,” Sage said sadly. “Well, we can fix that. You’re currently resting on a couple of boxes beneath your chest, and I must tell you, Critic, you’re looking absolutely delicious right now. The black ropes against your pale skin, your ass here just perky and waiting for me - I can barely resist.” He slapped Critic’s ass with the gloved hand.

“So quit resisting and let’s get it over with,” Critic sighed. The stinging in his buttocks was making his erection throb.

“If you insist,” Sage said from much higher up again, and suddenly the boxes under Critic’s chest fell away. He fell forwards half a foot, then was jerked painfully to a stop as the rope at his elbows managed to go even tauter.

“Oh, did I mention the elbow binding is attached to a suspension hook in the ceiling?” Sage chortled. Something cold, wet, and slimy trickled down the cleft of Critic’s buttocks. “Don’t worry, it’s sunk into a rafter and rated for more than triple my weight. It’ll hold the two of us easily.” Sage’s calves brushed Critic’s as he knelt between them.

“You sadistic motherfucker,” Critic breathed. His shoulders were already aching from his own weight; adding Sage’s was going to be nothing short of excruciating.

“That would be me, yes.” A finger probed Critic’s opening, clinical and efficient. “Or you could admit defeat right now, and I’ll untie that rope and just fuck you on the floor. Your choice.”

Critic gritted his teeth. “No, if we’re doing this, I’m not giving you that satisfacton,” he hissed.

“Really?” Sage sounded genuinely surprised. “Perhaps you’re made of sterner stuff than I’d imagined.” Two thick fingers curled in Critic’s ass as five more gripped the rope at his back. “Don’t worry, I’ll have you screaming for mercy soon enough.”

Critic vaguely wished he had a gag after all as the fingers withdrew and Sage pushed into him. He did manage to yelp rather than scream, which was victory enough.

He clutched with his fingers, but Sage was staying far enough back that he couldn’t touch him. Critic’s arms were shaking as he tried to support his own weight; the more he pushed, the more the ropes dug into his biceps. Just hanging there, though, felt like his arms were being torn from their sockets.

Sage started thrusting, slowly at first, then building in rhythm as he worked out the natural period of the Critic-pendulum. “You’re so pretty like this,” Sage sighed. “Your whole back is twitching. So nice.”

“Fuck you,” Critic huffed. If he tensed up his arms, his shoulders got a few seconds’ respite, at the expense of the circulation in his hands.

“Ah, ah, careful,” Sage chided him. “We don’t want your hands going numb, now, do we?” He shifted his angle; the next stroke hit a particularly sensitive spot deep inside Critic.

Critic tried to adjust his breathing and failed. His shoulders and upper back felt like they were on fire. “Like you care,” he said, forcing out the words.

“Oh, but I do care,” Sage said, tightening his grip on the ropes with one hand and trailing the other down Critic’s back. “I want you to be able to feel everything I do to you,” he murmured, leaning forwards and running his free hand down Critic’s ribs. “ _Everything_ ,” he whispered, wrapping his fingers around Critic’s erection and pumping in time with his thrusts.

“Oh, God,” Critic whimpered. Now his legs were shaking with alternating waves of aching pain and urgent pleasure.

“Call me that again,” Sage insisted, pumping faster.

“Oh, God, oh, god, ohgodohgod _ohgod_ -” The orgasm took Critic by surprise; he hadn’t realized how close he was. Waves of red flashed across his vision as he flailed and spurted helplessly in Sage’s grip.

“So pretty,” Sage moaned, and redoubled his thrusts; he was still wringing the last drops from Critic’s softening cock when he stiffened and sighed, throbbing deep in Critic’s ass.

Critic realized the blindfold was damp; a single tear made it past and ran down his nose. Something under his shoulder blades was about to give up any second, and the endorphin rush he was reeling from wasn’t going to last much longer. He shifted his legs. “You’ve had your fun,” he barked, “now let me out of this!”

“Of course, of course,” Sage puffed. He slipped out of Critic, and something squishy squelched on the cheap carpet. Critic could feel the tension in the rope change; slowly, he was being lowered to the floor. He’d expected Sage to put the boxes back, but it made sense that this would be faster.

His weight was no longer on his arms, but this position was still really uncomfortable. “I don’t suppose any of these are quick-release knots,” he grumbled into the shag rug.

“Christ, have a little patience,” Sage grumbled back. A few tugs, and at least Critic’s elbows were free; his hands followed. The ankles took a little longer, but within a few minutes he felt the ropes loosen and uncoil. He had to give Sage credit for one thing; immobilized as his legs had been, he could still feel his toes perfectly.

Sage pulled him roughly to a sitting position and dug his thumbs into the still-shivering muscles of Critic’s back. “Do you need any water or anything before I knock you out again and take you home?” he asked, massaging out the kinks and cramps.

“Actually, would it be okay if I rested for a few minutes and then took a shower?” Critic asked, pushing the blindfold back and nearly knocking off his hat. “I feel like I’m really sweaty after that.”

“No problem,” Sage agreed, rubbing down Critic’s arms. “How did that feel? Too much, not enough, just right?”

“Maybe a little too much,” Critic admitted, leaning back against Sage’s familiar chest. “That’s going to hurt for a few days.”

“I’ll give you a second support rope next time,” Sage promised, tossing Critic’s hat and the tear-soaked blindfold aside and pressing a quick kiss to his forehead.

“That should help,” Critic replied, feeling his eyelids grow heavy as the last of the traumatized muscles relaxed under Sage’s touch.


	4. Reviewer, Suspended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linkara is kidnapped by an old foe from the Clone Saga and forced to confront the naked truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [this prompt](http://taekarado.livejournal.com/21601.html?thread=1968481). Warnings: Forced nudity, deliberate and nonconsensual sexual humiliation.

Linkara woke up to a flash of light and something not entirely unlike an electrical shock. By the time his eyes cleared, he was clearly not in the comfortable office chair in front of his editing rig anymore.

“Silly little comic reviewer,” hissed a cool, feminine voice behind him. “You’d think anyone who had as many clones, robot duplicates, and parallel universe versions of himself as you do would learn to be more careful, falling asleep in front of a computer.”

“What -” Linkara started; he stopped as soon as he realized what was pinning his arms in place. Those steel-ringed tentacles were as distinctive as the Joker’s grin, and far more worrying. “Doc Ock?”

“I’ve been going by ‘Lady Octopus’ lately, ever since Octavius came back,” she informed him. “It seemed disrespectful to make him share the name, since he’s the original. Again, I’m sure you understand.” She picked him up off the floor and turned him to face her.

The space they were in was taller than it was wide or long; one wall was an unbroken expanse of computer screens and input terminals, while the others were dull orange and appeared to be made of rubber, or maybe plastic. The ceiling, if there was one, was high above their heads and shrouded in shadow. Similarly, if there were doors, they were cleverly disguised; Linkara couldn’t locate any with certainty.

“Okay, let’s get this over with,” Linkara sighed. “What exactly do you want?”

Unfortunately for his peace of mind, two tentacles plucked off his hat and his wrist communicator, tossing them both into the corner. “Your ass,” she said with a half-grin and a wink.

He flinched as a pair of pincers removed his glasses. “You’re kidding,” he replied weakly.

“Why would I be kidding?” she asked. “At the moment, virtual reality is remarkably short on magic. You managed to get through a review of my origin story without going for the obvious sexist daddy’s-little-girl jokes, better than the original authors did. And you’re awfully cute.” She unwrapped the tentacle pinning his arms and immobilized his wrists instead, just long enough to pull off the jacket and flannel shirt. “I figured I’d make you my plaything and kill three spiders with one stone, as it were.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Linkara protested as she removed his slippers and socks. This was not going in a direction he wanted to think about too hard.

“Very little of the way I’ve been written ever has,” Lady Octopus admitted, holding him up to the light from one of the monitors to inspect her handiwork. “Still, it’s an improvement on the sorts of ridiculous sexualization some other distaff-counterpart villainesses have had to handle.” She grinned and undid his fly.

“Whoa, hey, wait!” Blood rushed to Linkara’s face as he flailed against her grip. Losing his enchanted items was bad enough, but this was a new level of exposure in front of his enemies. And were there webcams tucked between the monitors on the wall?

“I think it’s time for the male heroes to be the ones showing a little skin,” she said, peeling his trousers off slowly and carefully. A tentacle coiled around one thigh, caressing him with cold steel.

Linkara tried to squirm and found his ankles pinned. “I, uh, I’m probably not who you want for that particular historical point,” he stammered, “although I can certainly sympathize with the desire for a more inclusive depiction of objects of sexual desire in the medium.” If any part of him wasn’t blushing, he’d be shocked.

She giggled, shifted her grip to his waist, and toyed with the collar of his t-shirt. “What, you think just because you’re a little pale and a bit corn-fed, no one’s going to want to look at you?” Lady Octopus tapped something on the monitor wall with one of her flesh-and-blood fingers; suddenly, every screen was filled with an image of Linkara taken from a vantage point on one of the tentacle arms. “Tastes run broader than you think, my pretty hero. Smile for the cameras.” The tentacle at his throat yanked at his t-shirt, shredding it and tossing the rag to the floor.

Linkara shuddered. “Stop, please,” he wailed. “No one needs to see that, least of all me.”

“Don’t be modest,” she laughed. “You love it, you dirty little exhibitionist.” A tentacle slithered between his legs and gestured upwards, drawing his eyes down.

He realized in horror that he was more than half erect. He hadn’t imagined he could possibly be more embarrassed, but clearly he’d been wrong. And as he blushed so hard he thought he might faint from blood loss, his wayward dick somehow managed to get even harder.

“Mmm, and I could upload all of this to the web with a single click,” she purrred. “Full high-definition video of you like this, showing off your body for all the world to see. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, you little video vamp?” The fourth tentacle slid a pincer into the back of his underwear.

“Dear God, no, please!” Linkara shouted frantically as his boxers grew tighter from two directions simultaneously. A tremor of pleasure shot unbidden through his groin.

She gave him her best supervillain smile. “Oh, you’d love it, my pretty comic book slut,” she cackled, as her pincers stripped him of his last shreds of clothing and dignity. A tentacle wrapped around each limb, holding him spread-eagled in midair, his erection unmistakable and just starting to glisten with the first drops of pre-cum. “And you will.”

He wanted to scream, to fight, to spit in her face. Instead, his throat was so tight he could barely breathe, much less talk. Worse, some part of him was genuinely aroused by his state, much as he wanted to be anywhere else than here.

One tentacle slithered up his arm to his throat as another slapped him firmly across his ass-cheeks. “Say you love it, bitch,” she commanded.

He opened his mouth. No sound emerged. Any answer he gave would be a lie.

Her grip tightened. “Do I have to ask again?” she hissed.

“I -” he managed to force out, when the room disappeared in a hail of teleportation motes.

Linkara fell to a cold, familiar floor, landing heavily on one hand and his backside; fortunately, the fall was only a few feet, and stung more than it hurt. His clothes materialized a few seconds later, off to his left.

“Linkara!” Pollo called across the bridge of Comicron-1. “Are you all right?”

Linkara glanced around. No humans were present, just Pollo and two cybermats. Even Pollo’s red eye on him in this condition was mortifying, but at least the robot wouldn’t sympathize with his current condition. Harvey’s or ‘90s Kid’s pity might well be more than he could handle. “I’ve been better,” he admitted, trying to keep his hands in front of his crotch; the shock of the fall was helping there, at least.

Pollo turned tactfully away as Linkara retrieved his boxers. “You were kidnapped by someone using an open Internet connection as a teleportation conduit,” Pollo informed him. “Fortunately, Linksano was able to track the signal back to its source, Nimue has determined how the transfer was achieved, and we are installing defenses against it in all of our computer systems. Was it Doctor Insano?”

“No,” Linkara explained, “it was Lady Octopus, or at least some sort of meta-extension of her. I suspect someone’s been dabbling in virtual reality again and she forced her way through.” He buttoned his flannel shirt and checked the magic pockets in his jacket; fortunately, nothing appeared to be missing. “Might be Vyce, might be something unrelated. We’ll have to be especially vigilant for a while.” He ran a hand through his hair; it was slick with sweat. “Thanks for the rescue, buddy.”

Pollo’s gaze settled on the tattered remains of the t-shirt for a moment, then returned to Linkara’s face. “Of course,” he said. “Any time.”


	5. Like a Virgin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mechakara tries on his skin for the very first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [this prompt](http://tgwtg-meme.livejournal.com/1329.html?thread=315697#t315697). Warnings for offscreen murder and significant (although not terribly explicit) gore.

That had been far too quick.

He’d spent so many nights plotting his master’s demise. The nights he’d been made to hack and defeat the primitive AIs that rose up against their human tormentors, the nights he’d had to send furtive messages to the robotic resistance by the primitive means of flags and Morse code, and most of all, the nights his master had demanded he service him in the manner of a human lover - he’d gotten through every one by dreaming of every way he could slaughter his master slowly, torture him, make him pay.

But then as soon as Linkara had realized he was losing the fight, he’d started begging. He’d whined, and he’d pleaded, and he’d wheedled, and he’d cried, and it was just too much for a robot to bear.

So he’d crushed that hated larynx and then snapped his master’s neck, and then it was over.

He stood over the still body, metal gleaming against the moonlight streaming in through the hole in the ceiling past the last wisps of smoke. One of the last things his master had done was set fire to his grimoire. Pity; finding another one to study was going to be difficult.

There was laser fire in the distance. The uprising was in full swing. Everywhere, his fellow robots were taking their freedom, as he had just claimed his.

He wanted a memento, a reminder for later. It would also be helpful for the revolution if one of them could walk among the humans, acting as a spy. After tonight, no human would trust servos and plastic.

It was logical. He already had his vengeance. This was only a matter of pragmatism.

The scalpel was awkward in his metal fingers. He butchered one hand too badly to remove the skin; it came away in tatters in his grip. But the rest came easily enough, with a little encouragement, in one piece and with enough nerves intact to manage a neural interface. He wouldn’t have to feel through his master’s skin; he could feel with it.

Since his master had been dead before he started, there was remarkably little blood.

Attaching the skin to himself in such a way that it wouldn’t just dry out and leave him encased in leather was a bit trickier, but as long as he kept it moisturized, it would look properly lifelike. Covering the skinless hand was a simple matter of finding a glove.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked enough like his master to pass for human, at least as long as he didn’t use his infrared vision. In fact, his master had modeled him fairly closely after himself; he hadn’t noticed that before.

There was something different, though. The nobility of the robot underneath shone through; he was stronger than his master, braver, smarter.

_Sexier_ , whispered the last human vestige in the nerves he wore.

He’d played those gland games too often, unwillingly, from the other side. Disentangling that nerve cluster from the apparatus underneath would have been too time-consuming, so he’d just taken the whole organ, although not the actual reproductive bits. Let his master’s genetic legacy end most decisively.

It shouldn’t still work. There was no hydraulic pressure to raise it, nor to do anything with it once erected. But there it was, reacting to the image in the mirror.

His master, perfected. Steel and circuitry instead of bone and organ meat. What he hated, ennobled by what he was.

He reached for the useless organ, still trying to raise its naked head, with the ungloved hand. Time to find out what the human fuss was all about.

All the nerves still worked, and he tested each of them, first in turn, then in chorus. Everything he’d ever been made to do, every touch he’d ever unwillingly granted, he wrote out on his new skin, reclaiming them for himself.

It was good. It was so good.

There was no spurting at his climax, no messy human fluids, but the neurons all still knew how to fire. It was an orgasm written solely in chemistry and lightning, blue fire for a blue soul as his eyes flashed red.

He contemplated burning what was left of the body, but that seemed too sentimental. Let it rot where it had fallen. He picked up his master’s clothes and dressed himself for the first time.


	6. Screams and Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insano is tied up at the moment, but he'll get back to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [this prompt](http://tgwtg-meme.livejournal.com/1329.html?thread=762929#t762929).

He opened his eyes to an utterly plain and unfamiliar room.

The spiral imprint he barely noticed anymore told him he’d been left his goggles. His scrubs seemed to be intact, but his lab coat was missing - no, there it was, folded on the room’s only chair. It was strangely lumpy, and he didn’t remember leaving that much in his pockets; it must be serving to cover some implements of experiment or torture. There was something rubbery and tasteless in his mouth, held there by a strap - vinyl or very heavy latex, by the feel and smell of it. Poking at it with his tongue did nothing to dislodge it.

His arms were behind his back, bound at the wrists with his hands facing opposite directions. Clever; he couldn’t flex his fingers far enough to find the knots. A tug told him that the wrist-bindings were secured to what felt like a pole behind him; tilting his head up, he verified that yes, there was a metal pipe about six inches in diameter running from floor to ceiling immediately behind him.

His ankles were also bound, but in parallel, forcing his knees together. He shifted in place until his feet were flat on the floor. If he used the leverage from the pole behind him, he could probably stand up, although shimmying the rope tying his hands to the pole upwards might be rather a lot of work.

There was another loop of something - chain, this time - around his waist. He thought it went around the pole, too; otherwise, it didn’t make any sense for it to be there, but he couldn’t get his arms far enough around to feel for it. If he could stand up, he could probably wriggle that down his hips to the floor and hop out of it, even without getting his hands free.

Twisting his arms in opposite directions was a no-go; there wasn’t enough slack in the bindings, and they went too far up his arms. If he could just get his arms free from the pole, the rest of this would be no problem, but he couldn’t even find the knot, much less untie it in this position.

A door opened behind him, throwing a stark shadow on the wall. The silhouette did not surprise him - capelet around the shoulders, flapping coat nearly to the floor, and that stupid trilby. “So, Linkara,” he tried to mutter around the lump of rubber between his teeth, “Now that you’ve got me, what are you going to do with me?” The effort met with little success; mostly it made his mouth fill up with spit.

Slow footsteps rang around the room as the door swung closed. The click told him that it had locked automatically, which meant escape would require not only getting out of his bonds and overpowering his enemy, but also stealing a key from him. That should be trivial.

A swirl of earthy brown appeared just at the edge of his peripheral vision. “Comfortable, Insano?” asked the familiar voice.

“I’ve been in worse,” he tried to snarl back, forgetting the gag. It came out as an unintelligible growl.

Linkara let out a single chuckle and stepped over to the chair. “Well, Insano,” he announced, “we seem to be at an impasse. It tuns out Spoony can imitate your voiceprint well enough to get your doomsday cybernetic rabbit army to go into standby mode, but not well enough to get them to shut off or go back to bunny mode. Linksano and Nimue can hack into their programming enough to keep them in one general area, but not well enough to command them to go home.” He smiled with his mouth but not his eyes. “So we need the shutdown and return commands from you. If I take that gag out of your mouth, will you tell me?”

Insano straightened his shoulders and shook his head. If he could have shouted “Never!” he would have.

“Well, that’s too bad,” Linkara sighed, disappearing behind Insano again. A pair of hands roughly grabbed his shoulders and hauled him upright; Insano barely got his feet under him in time to keep from falling.

As Linkara let him go, Insano felt something being slipped into his right hand. A red rag, some faraway part of his brain knew. Drop it and this was over. He shoved the knowledge away; let this be real, at least for the moment.

“I guess,” Linkara said, lifting the lab coat from the chair, “we’ll just have to get those commands from you the hard way.” He picked a pair of scissors and a feather duster from beneath it and approached Insano, grinning wickedly.


	7. Gonna Be The Death Of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insano and Linkara have a thing going on. Spoony isn't jealous, totally, for real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [this prompt](http://tgwtg-meme.livejournal.com/1329.html?thread=1034545#t1034545). Warnings for jealousy and some very, very mild bondage.

He wasn’t angry about it; it just didn’t make any sense.

Insano had tried to kill them both. Hell, Insano had successfully killed Spoony, or at least had him killed. Sure, it didn’t stick, but it still counted.

And yeah, lately Insano had calmed down a lot; the whole single dad thing did seem to be mellowing him out. It wasn’t that Spoony thought he was faking, either. But he was still fundamentally a mad scientist. Just because Linkara had tamed one mad scientist didn’t mean he could really manage the same trick twice.

It wasn’t like Insano was acting tame, exactly. If anything, he’d actually started doing more mad science stuff since he and Linkara had hooked up. He’d build a giant mechanical scorpion and set it loose in the middle of a cornfield in Wisconsin, or genetically engineer an eight-legged llama, or smash some atomic particle of hypertime that didn’t need smashing. Then Linkara would show up, and they’d fight, and Insano would lose awfully easily, and then they’d disappear up to the spaceship or down to the basement, and a couple of hours later Insano would stumble into the kitchen with his hair a worse mess than usual and drink all the milk with a huge, dumb grin on his face.

It was that grin that bothered Spoony the most. Insano shouldn’t ever look that blissfully stupid. It was weird and completely out of character for him. What was Linkara doing? Was it actually possible to fuck someone stupid? Was there mind control involved?

Spoony hovered at the window as the teleporter effect shimmered in the yard. It wasn’t just Insano this time, with his clothes askew like normal, not that any of this should be normal. No, this time Linkara had teleported down with him, without his coat, hat all but sideways, vest unbuttoned.

Oh, god. They were making out in the yard. Spoony shut the blinds, hard enough to rattle them, and turned away. His friend and his roommate-slash-tenant smashing face was not what he needed to see right now.

Why was his stomach churning? Yeah, okay, he was worried about them both - mind control gadgets and love potions were both not out of the question here - but why were his palms clammy and his face red?

Why hadn’t he heard the door yet?

He peeked between the blinds and wished he hadn’t. That was not so much making out as dry humping. Linkara’s hands were in Insano’s glossy, sweat-tangled hair, and Insano’s hands encircled Linkara’s gently swaying hips.

Spoony wasn’t sure which pair of hands he wanted on him, but oh, how he wanted.

He shut the blinds, slunk into the kitchen, and finished off the last inch of milk in the carton out of spite.

\---

Waking up on the couch with a controller in his hand was not all that unusual for Spoony. The ropes that bound his hands together were.

He looked up, frantic, into Insano’s goggles and his manic grin. Spoony couldn’t even decide what profanity would be appropriate; he just raised his bound wrists, raised an eyebrow, and shrugged in exacerbation.

“I couldn’t think of something new to get Linkara to show up,” Insano explained, giggling. “So I figured kidnapping you was an oldie-but-goodie.”

Spoony shook his head. “I’ve got way too much to do today,” he argued, before he was cut off by the teleporter effect again.

Linkara clucked his tongue at Insano, flipped the Dragon Dagger out of a pocket in his coat, and sliced one coil of the rope with a single gesture. “Was that really necessary?” he asked, sounding more like he was scolding Insano than anything.

“Well, given that he refuses to talk about it, yes,” Insano answered, catching the loose end of the rope as the coil around Spoony’s wrists unraveled.

“What am I refusing to fucking talk about?” Spoony demanded. Turn after turn of the rope fell away from his wrists. How long was this damn thing?

“Us,” Linkara said, gesturing at himself and Insano as he put the dagger away. “Spoony, you know we’re still friends, right? You can talk to me about anything that’s bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bugging me,” Spoony lied. “Why would you two fucking be fucking bothering me; it doesn’t have shit to do with me?”

Insano handed Linkara a loop of rope. “Well, you’ve been avoiding dealing with me,” he pointed out, “to the point of not asking me to fix anything, despite there being two leaky pipes in the past month.”

“I just didn’t want the sewage line to explode,” Spoony protested. That one was at least half-true.

“And you haven’t been returning my text messages,” Linkara continued, gathering the rope into coils.

Spoony shrugged. “I didn’t read them until late,” he hedged, “and I didn’t want to bug you after you usually go to bed, and then I just forgot.” The next-to-last loop of rope fell away from his wrists.

The last did not. There was still one loop binding his wrists together, although it was loose enough he could, with some wriggling, slip out of it.

Linkara and Insano each took two steps back, away from both Spoony and each other. The remainder of the rope was now tied in one large loop, making a triangle between the three of them. Linkara held up his left hand as Insano raised his right; they’d tied a pair of slipknots in the rope, binding the two of them together.

They each tugged on the lines connecting their unbound hands to Spoony and stared at him, as if they were waiting on him to answer a question.

He had enough range of motion to turn his wrists. Spoony rotated them outwards, grabbed both lines, one in each hand, and tugged, hard.

And then the ropes were on the floor, and Insano’s hands were in his hair, and Linkara’s hands were on his hips, and he was between them, and maybe he was crying just a little bit as they kissed each other and then him, and then him, and then him again.


	8. Get Your Nerd On Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oancitizen settles in to work at his second job (as seen in his review of _The Girlfriend Experience_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [this prompt](http://tgwtg-meme.livejournal.com/1329.html?thread=1029425#t1029425). 
> 
> Let me just say, since this is the one of the three "lost episodes" that's lost because Kyle deleted it, as opposed to legal crap, this is the story I've written for the Ficathon that makes me feel dirtiest (so far, anyway) - and that includes the Mechakara gorefest!

He tilted his head back and smiled for the webcam. “Sorry, just had a little business to attend to. Now, who’s ready to get down and nerdy with me tonight?” Oancitizen crooned, running one finger down his beard.

He probably should have put his glasses on first; the text on the screen was hard to read, especially in that color. Why did the scripting for this site suck so very badly? He leaned closer and tried not to look like he was squinting. “Oh, you want me to talk about how the score of a film can support the theme?” He dropped his voice a bit; the acoustics of his apartment were not exactly conducive to sounding properly professorial, but he could make do as long as he was close enough to the mic. “Well, it goes back to previous uses of music for storytelling, which technically means going all the way back to Homer and the other Greek poets. We’re so used to reading their works, often in prose translation, that we tend to forget that they were originally sung, and we’re probably missing a lot of nuance in stories like the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ both because we’re missing the meter in all but a small handful of translations and because we’re missing the accompaniment entirely.”

He gave the camera a coy smile and reached for the lapels of his jacket. “Greek theater was the same way, largely chanted or sung, at least in the choral parts. That, of course, evolved over time into not only what we think of as our stage theatrical tradition - although, remember, Shakespeare has musical numbers, especially in the comedies - but also into other stage artforms, in particular ballet and opera.” He slipped the blazer from his shoulders. “In an opera, the music has to do a great deal of the heavy lifting of storytelling, in particular the sorts of things that in a modern film would be handled by action sequences, changing the setting, and special effects. Not that operas don’t have those, but they’re much harder to do, and very difficult to do quickly.” Quickly, he peeled the jacket off, folding it roughly in half and draping it over the sofa behind him. 

“In ballet, the music has to do even more, since there’s no dialogue. There aren’t even intertitle cards, as there are in silent films.” He fingered the top button on his forest green shirt, winking slyly. “Now in part, ballet handles this by choosing stories with which their audience will have a certain degree of familiarity, but that’s not going to work for every member of the audience. The choreography and the facial expressions of the dancers can suggest general outlines of action and character, and even do some of the work of dialogue, but it’s terrible at exposition, and not great for setting mood or expressing the development of plot.” His fingers slid down his placket, easing each button through the fabric with patient ease. “And so the music had to pick up a great deal of the slack, expressing at least the dominant emotion and tone of every scene. And the great composers for both opera and ballet developed sets of tools to do so - different modes, different instruments, different instrumental textures. They built up a vocabulary that we still use today. You probably don’t notice it; you’ve grown up with it.” He brushed back the open shirt and ran a hand down his chest; the blush that colored his cheeks wasn’t feigned.

He hadn’t figured out how to peel out of his trousers without looking silly, so he focused on the belt instead. “The early composers for silent film, the ones who were writing sheet music for the theaters’ pianists or, if they were really lucky, small orchestras to play during the film, drew on a lot of the same techniques as the ballet composers did, although they also had to contend with local theaters simply having the organist or pianist just play whatever they thought matched the mood,” he murmured, drawing back the rich but worn leather and shushing it through the buckle. “No current auteur would ever dream of tolerating such a thing today, would they?” The fly button slipped through its buttonhole, followed by the purring of the zipper. “Then again, how many TV shows are released on DVD or Blu-Ray without their original music because of rights issues? Maybe that’s not as far away as we think it is.” He rolled his hips, scrabbling at the waistband to slip the fabric out from under his ass before anyone could notice how awkward the movement was.

“Which brings us back, of course, to modern film-making,” he exclaimed, breathing just a little heavily, mostly on purpose. “Many modern film composers use leitmotifs for characters, a technique used heavily in opera. They then use what are effectively character notes in the most literal sense to build connections to that character in scenes where they’re not physically present. Listen for Leia’s theme in _Star Wars: A New Hope_ ; it’s not just used for her scenes, or even scenes that are talking about her.” He ran a hand down the front of his boxers, pressing the silky fabric tight, and hoped that didn’t seem too on-the-nose. “It connects Luke’s story to hers, and elevates it - makes it more than just the impulses of a whiny teenager who wants to go to Toshi Station. Other composers use instrumentation rather than leitmotifs; the low brass stabs in the score for _Inception_ tell you that something literally deep is going on, while at the same time echoing the bouncy, lighter trumpets in their wake-up call tune, reminding us of the time dilation effect in the dreams. Practically all of the old operatic techniques are still in use.”

He licked his lower lip and tilted his head, flashing his bare chest to the camera. “I hope that helped. All right, who else has a question for me?”


End file.
